


Satisfied Ferocity

by DoctorSyntax



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, Knifeplay, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorSyntax/pseuds/DoctorSyntax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few months after the events of "Born Under a Bad Sign," Sam shows up at Jo's motel room with a knife and a proposition. Features always-a-cisgirl!Sam but no other changes to canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Satisfied Ferocity

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based in my Supernatural/So Weird crossover verse, but more for my own amusement than any plot-related reasons. Certainly you don't need to read that to understand this.

Jo's sprawled out on the shitty motel couch with a half-drunk bottle of beer in one hand and the remote in the other. Absorbed in watching bad television and resolutely not brooding, she's startled by a knock on the door. There's only one person it could be, so she hauls herself off the couch with a groan and crosses the room. Yanking the door open she says, "Fi, you gotta stop forgetting—"

It's not Fi.

"Hey, Jo," Sam Winchester says. She looks embarrassed, standing a little hunched over with her hands stuffed in the pockets of her hoodie.

Jo takes a step back out of surprise, wondering if she should just slam the door shut and avert any possible trouble, or give Sam the benefit of the doubt.

"Hi, Sam," she says. "What… how did you find me?"

Sam laughs a little. "I told you last time: I'm a hunter. That's kind of what I do."

Last time. As if Jo would forget. Sam's hair has grown out a little since then—it's almost to her shoulders now—but otherwise she looks the same. It's been almost three months.

"Can I…" Sam bites at her bottom lip, nervous. "Do you mind if I come in? I want to talk to you." She takes her hands out of her pockets to show that they're empty, but it's impossible for Jo not to notice the huge knife strapped to her thigh.

Jo doesn't answer, doesn't move.

"Please?" Sam looks at her with earnest eyes. She taps her index finger against her temple. "Nothing ridin' around up here but me, I swear." She's got on makeup—that's new. Just a little, some mascara and a dusty-rose colored lipstick—the kind of makeup most girls put on every morning—but it's more than Jo's ever seen her wear, looks out of place with her old pullover and worn jeans.

Jo relents and takes a step back, allowing Sam into the room. Laid out on the table near the door are an assortment of her and Fi's weapons, and she grabs the water gun and squirts Sam once in the face.

Nothing happens. Sam just blinks at her, water dripping down her face.

"Sorry," Jo shrugs, dropping the pistol back on the table and kicking the door shut with her foot. "Had to be sure."

Sam just laughs, sweet and lilting, and wipes her face with the sleeve of her hoodie. "Hey, no worries. Is that squirtgun filled with holy water?"

Jo grins ruefully. "Fi's idea."

"Fi?"

"Another hunter, friend of Ash's," Jo clarifies. "We teamed up a couple months back, a little after I last saw you and Dean."

Sam nods, processing the information. "Cool. Is she—?" she glances around Jo, taking in the room.

Jo shakes her head. "Out for the night." _With Claire_ , her mind supplies bitterly, but she resolutely does not pursue that line of thought. "She might be back soon, I don't know," she hedges, still unsure of what Sam's doing here. Best not give her the impression she's totally alone, just in case.

Jo kind of hates that she has to be on guard like this around Sam, but after last time—well. She's not about to make the same mistakes twice.

"Right, well. I wanted to apologize. Last time I saw you… I wasn't very nice."

"You mean the demon possessing you wasn't very nice," Jo corrects.

Sam's wry grin puts Jo a little more at ease. "Yeah. I'm really, really sorry about that." She's undoing the first couple buttons of her shirt, then pulls the collar aside to reveal a tattoo of a five-pointed star just above the swell of her breast. "Won't happen again."

Jo nods, tugging the anti-possession necklace out from underneath her shirt collar, letting it dangle between her index and middle fingers for a second. "We both learned a lesson that night." Letting it fall against her chest, she sticks her hands in her back pockets and asks, "So... you alone?" and though she's aiming for a casual, conversational tone she can tell by the way Sam's face falls ever-so-slightly that she doesn't quite succeed.

"You mean, did Dean come with me?" Sam asks, and Jo hates the hint of wounded pride she can hear behind the question. "No… just me."

"Oh," she answers, and an awkward silence descends. "Sam, I didn't—"

Sam dismisses the rest of her sentence with a wave. "Forget about it."

She doesn't mean to turn her back on Sam—it's a monumentally stupid thing to do, after last time—but the next thing she knows one of Sam's arms is wrapped tight around her waist, and there's a knife at her throat. A big one; the one Sam had brought with her.

"You've got to be kidding me," Jo gasps out, trying not to move.

"Tell me you don't want this, and I'll stop," Sam tells her, voice quiet. "Tell me this isn't something that you think about, and I'll never bring it up again." Sam's soft words are certain and deadly accurate, and Jo knows that she knows. Her adrenaline spikes and races and she squeezes her eyes shut, trying to clear her thoughts over the hazy circulation of lust in her veins.

"Jesus, just... use a smaller knife."

All at once the pressure leaves her throat, and Jo breathes a little bit easier even as she misses the cool touch of metal on her skin. 

"Yeah, okay," and Sam's voice is neutral, so casual, like she didn't just have a sharpened blade pressed against the fragile skin of someone's throat, and what does _that_ say about the kind of life Sam was raised in? She slides a hand around Jo's side and settles it around her hip. "One of mine or one of yours?"

Jo bits her lip, thinking. As strange (thrilling) as it would be for Sam to use an unfamiliar knife against her, press it against her and hold her life by a thread with, she knows exactly how sharp each of her own knives are. More to the point: how blunt they are. It's more than she can say for any knife Sam may have brought.

But a knife is a knife is a knife, and if Sam really wants to kill her a blunter knife is only going to make it a longer, more painful process. But then again, if Sam really wants to kill her, telling her to stop isn't going to mean much either.

"Mine," Jo says, sliding her father's knife out of her pocket and handing it over. There are dozens of other ones she could go get, but if she's going to die like this it might as well be as poetic as possible.

Sam curls her hand around Jo, fingers tightening around the knife as she slides it out of Jo's grasp. The full swell of Sam's chest flatten against her back, soft even as Sam presses hard against her. The light _snick_ of the blade opening is a sound Jo's heard a thousand times but it's different this time, fills her with a strange kind of trepidation and exhilaration, the two emotions so utterly conflicting and yet coexisting so peacefully in tandem with each other.

Because she's been around the block a time or two she knows what Sam's going to do next: the blade comes up against her throat with no preamble whatsoever, a light line of cool metal against the heat of her pulse. Typical. There's no way Sam's done this before; she wouldn't have begun with something so obvious. The next thing she's going to do is lower her head to Jo's ear, growl something controlling, tell her to get on the bed and spread her legs. Yawn.

But Jo should know better than. She should, but she's still surprised when Sam twists the blade to press the flat against her collarbone and slides her other hand over Jo's hip, pressing the palm of her hand flat over Jo's cunt through her jeans.

"I'll bet you're wet already," Sam whispers, and the note of awe in her voice is literally the last thing on earth Jo expected. "You are, aren't you? Were you that night Meg possessed me? I put that knife right up to your face and your legs opened like a reflex. God. Weren't you scared?"

"I wasn't," Jo murmurs back, and they both know it's a lie. She remembers that night, the way her heart was racing so fast she thought it would stop dead any second; so bad that just thinking about it now gets her adrenaline pumping, sliding through her veins like slick terror.

"I was scared, Jo," Sam confesses, words tumbling out of her mouth like she can't say them fast enough. She brushes her nose against Jo's cheekbone, her skin smooth and warm. "I watched the whole thing happened, trapped inside my own body." Her fingers slide under the hem of Jo's t-shirt, fingertips tracing light patterns against sensitive skin. "Meg was touching you the way I've always wanted to, with my own hands, and I couldn't do a thing but scream inside my own head for her to stop. _Not Jo. Not like this._ And she didn't listen."

Her fingers dip beneath the waist of Jo's jeans, pushing aside the elastic of her underwear for just a second before Sam switches, totally changes direction and pulls her hand back to slide it up Jo's torso beneath her shirt, moving the knife away long enough to yank Jo's shirt above her head.

"That demon," Sam continues, idly caressing Jo's collarbone with the flat of the blade, "she knew how much I wanted you, and I really believe she would have done something if Dean hadn't shown up when he did. And I was just gonna have to sit there inside my own skin and watch her take something you didn't want to give."

The idea of it—a demon possessing Sam, making her force herself on Jo—it shouldn't be sexy. It should turn her stomach in revulsion, make her want to clamp her legs shut. But it doesn't. She tries to picture the demon—Meg, Sam had called her—tries to picture Meg in Sam's body, tying her to the support beam. Yanking her clothes off, or just aside, just enough access to sink two fingers deep inside her, scissor her open and make her scream.

Or maybe she'd have grabbed Jo by the root of her hair, pulled her head down and made her use her mouth on Sam, hold her at knife-point and order her to go down on Sam. Could the demon feel what was done to Sam's body? Or would it just be Sam she was pleasuring, the demon getting off on the control she had over the both of them? Jo shivers just to think about it, wants to squirm as Sam casually picks the blade up so that little more than the tip rests against her skin, casually twirling the blade—no real threat, but _christ_ if it doesn't feel like she's holding Jo's life by a thread—against the hard bone of Jo's collar. Every second she's expecting it to catch on her skin, cut a tiny nick, draw a thin line of blood—but it doesn't.

"But I still think about it, sometimes," Sam continues in a hushed voice. Like she doesn't want anyone else to hear. "Night after night. What it would be like if you wanted me and not my brother. If you were tied up because you wanted it, and the only person in my brain was me. The things I'd do to you, Jo, if only you'd let me."

"What—" Jo stops when her voice trembles, takes a breath to steady herself. "What would you do?"

"This," Sam answers, and in one swift movement she drops the knife, grabs Jo's shoulder and spins her around. A hand on Jo's sternum, a quick shove, and she's slamming backward into the crappy motel mattress before she knows what's happening.

"Jesus," Jo chokes out, so turned on she can't even think as Sam kneels on either side of her thighs and takes up the knife again.

Sam drags the back of the blade down Jo's torso. One pound of pressure can cut human flesh, Jo reminds herself. She digs the tip of the knife underneath the thin strip of fabric connecting the cups of Jo's bra and tugs upward, slicing through the fabric. She nudges the cups aside and Jo's naked from the waist up.

"Perfect," Sam says, and that awestruck, almost reverent tone is back in her voice, doing a number on Jo, making her needy and wet.

"God, Jo," Sam breathes, staring down at her exposed body, the way her chest heaves with every breath. "How many times have you done this? How many times have you touched yourself thinking about it?"

Jo opens her mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Words utterly escape her. "Tell me," Sam insists, sliding the flat of the blade up her sternum, leveling it across her throat. She's demanding, she needs to know, and through a haze of lust Jo recognizes the opportunity to regain some footing.

"No," she whispers, and Sam makes a noise.

She increases the pressure of the knife incrementally, treading the thinnest line Jo's ever been pushed to, so close to cutting open her skin and spilling her blood everywhere. Jo's half-afraid that if she even breathes that'll be the last of her, or that all the blood thrumming through her veins will push her skin against the blade that last little bit. And wouldn't it just be the perfect irony: Bill Harvelle dead at the hands of John Winchester, his daughter at the hands of John's daughter. Jo has to force herself to take a breath, remind herself that _Sam Winchester is not John Winchester, nor is she the demon who had possessed her. Sam Winchester has nothing but kind._ It's a fact she's intellectually aware of, but one that does nothing to calm her racing heart. And maybe it's better that way.

She whimpers, and Sam reduces the pressure just enough to allow her to speak without cutting her own throat. "I—" she's surprised when her voice comes out hoarse, but she's afraid to clear it. "Too many times."

"Were you thinking about it then?" and Sam doesn't need to clarify when _then_ was.

"No," she answers, and it's only half-true.

"Liar," Sam says, voice flashing dark like it had that night in Duluth, when it wasn't her speaking. "I could smell how much you wanted it, Jo. It was like fear, only stronger. If there was no demon, if it had just been me... you don't know how much I wanted to touch. Take off your pants," she commands.

Sam's kneeling on either side of her hips, so it's a struggle to maneuver her jeans off her hips, but Sam gives no quarter, keeps the knife flush against her throat. Jo fights back the only way she knows how: locks eyes with Sam as she shimmies out of her jeans, making sure Sam can read the want in her eyes like it was written in a book.

The way Sam's eyes darken and dilate is a private victory, and Jo takes satisfaction in the way Sam's bicep flexes as she tightens her grip on the knife. Fine. So maybe Sam's not so much in control right now.

"Now you," Jo challenges, and Sam smiles slow and shakes her head.

"I don't think so. You're so vulnerable right now, and I hold all the cards. You think I'm going to give that up? I've got you right where I want you." She leans in, brushes her lips over the shell of Jo's ear. "Right where I've always wanted you: underneath me, so wet. You can't imagine how much I wanted to do exactly _this_ ," and her fingers smooth down over Jo's pelvis, dip low and slide into the waiting slick. The calloused pad of Sam's middle finger slides back and forth, never quite making it to her clit or her opening, and she's torn over which one she wants more, but she _wants_ and Sam is denying her, keeping her on edge and it makes her furious. But she can't squirm, can't force her body in one direction or another to meet Sam's hand (ring finger joining the first but still not touching her where she wants) because of the knife, the damn knife, five short inches of metal keeping her locked in place, muscles locked in a bastardized form of terror she can't get enough of.

The teasing, though, that's torture. She feels like if Sam were to pull her fingers away they'd practically be dripping. The waiting is killing her in the best way possible, and this is better than anything she'd ever imagined, anything she'd ever done with herself, anything she'd daydreamed in the years since she first idly wondered what it would be like.

Then, abruptly, Sam slides two fingers up inside Jo, the sudden intrusion forcing a gasp, and it's a good thing Sam turned the knife and dragged it down Jo's sternum at the same time because otherwise it may actually have drawn blood. She can feel the blade as it drags down her torso, bumping over the contours of her body and the ridges of her ribs as Sam twists and curls her fingers inside Jo's body, making her whine and arch. The knife on top of her, dragging down toward her hips, is like an invisible barrier that Sam uses to keep Jo from arching too high, moving too much, like placing a palm on her to force her back down but so much deadlier.

The knife leaves her skin for a split second and then the flat of it whacks against her flank. Her hips jerk in surprise and Sam forces a third finger into her body.

"Just like that, baby," Sam tells her, voice soothing. "This is what I'd do to you." The knife is gone from her hand, discarded somewhere on the bed, and Sam presses her palm to the jut of Jo's hipbone, pressing her down hard into the mattress even as her fingers make Jo want to writhe and buck against her.

She'd been holding back before, because of the knife, but she doesn't have to anymore. She finally allows herself to heed the orgasm that's been steadily building over the last five minutes, and with a cut-off whimper she grinds down on Sam's fingers and comes. Sam stays with her through it, all soothing words and soft carresses like Jo needs to be gentled, and it's precisely the kind of thing that would grate coming from anyone else. But not from Sam.

On instinct she reaches for Sam as soon as she catches her breath, and Sam backs away with a soft, "No."

Jo's surprised, and a little hurt, and it must show on her face. Sam shakes her head. "No," she repeats. "This is about me making up for what happened in Duluth."

"But I want—"

"Tell you what," Sam says gently. "We ever cross paths again you can owe me one, okay? But for now I'm going to get going, before your hunter friend gets back."

She wants to draw Sam close to her, just for the reassuring touch of another human being, but she'll be damned if she'll admit that after the way Sam just shut her down. So she crosses her arms over her chest and watches in silence as Sam gets off the bed and straightens her clothes—because she hadn't taken a single piece off—and head toward the door after offering an awkward goodbye smile.

"Sam," Jo calls. Sam looks back over her shoulder. "Your knife," Jo gestures.

Sam grins, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Keep it. I brought it for you."

Jo flushes pink. "Really?" she asks, a little stupidly.

"Yeah. For your collection."

Jo can't hide her surprise. She'd only mentioned her collection once in front of Sam, during a screaming match with her mother almost a year ago. The fact that Sam remembered all this time later, and then brought her one? A huge smile breaks across Jo's face. "Sam, that's…" She crosses the room and pulls Sam toward her by the hips, kissing her slow and sweet on the mouth. "Thank you," Jo says when they break apart.

The smile Sam gives her is blinding. "Least I could do."

*

"Hey, is that a new knife?" Fi asks. "I thought you were going to stay in tonight."

"I did," Jo answers. "Sam Winchester dropped by, gave it to me as an apology for what happened in Duluth."

If Fi suspects there's more to the story that Jo's not telling, she doesn't let it show on her face. "Cool." She drops next to Jo on the couch, a little too close for Jo's comfort; par for the course, really. But she still rests her head on Fi's shoulder. Her hair smells like whiskey and cigarettes, reminding Jo of the Roadhouse—of _home_ —and Jo has never wanted Fi more than this moment, after she's just had someone else.

"How was the bar?" she asks, instead.


End file.
